


I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream

by SmilinStar



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, F/M, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-22 04:40:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13159473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmilinStar/pseuds/SmilinStar
Summary: Sara comes to a stop beside his table and places the tea in front of him, followed by a mince pie.He frowns down at it, the words “I didn’t order that” clearly on his lips, but she gets in first.“It’s Christmas. They’re on the house.”A coffee-shop AU. Kinda. Maybe. Maybe not.





	I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream

*

 

The latest flurry of snow shows no signs of letting up.

It’s been like this all day. On-off, the snowfall heavy and frequent enough to have blanketed the city, and for once promises of a white Christmas are within the realm of possibility.

They’ve not had one for a decade at least. It adds to the holiday excitement, and it’s all anyone can talk about.

Not that Sara cares either way.

Sure, it’s pretty, but it’s just as much a pain in the ass.

The blare of car horns, and foul-mouthed cursing that bursts through the door with a jingle of the bell announcing another customer, proves her point.

Traffic in Star City is ridiculous on a good day. Add in a freak weather event, and it descends into chaos. It’s times like these she’s glad she’s got her Ninja – winding her way through the queues and speeding away. It’s freedom. And she won’t let it go for anything – even if her parents hate that she rides one.

(“It’s a death trap, Sara! Why do you even need one anyway? You only live a few blocks from the café!”

Because, _yeah,_ she thinks. _The streets of Star City are a whole lot safer, right mom?_

She doesn’t say that, of course. Just shrugs her shoulders, and dismisses her with a familiar, “whatever.”)

Truth be told, she’s just not in the mood this year.

Everything about the season is pissing her off. The cutesy names for the new coffee concoctions ( _abominations)_ on their menu; the false smiles on every customer that walks in the door and wishes her a merry Christmas or happy holidays; even the gingerbread men sitting below the glass counter smiling back at her with fake, drawn-on, blood-red icing lips are enough to make her jaw clench. The radio station playing Christmas songs on loop tops it all off. If she has to hear Mariah Carey screeching “ _all I want for Christmas is youuuuu, baby!”_ one more time, she’ll throw the damn radio through the shop window.

And the next person who tells her to “cheer up!” or “smile!” will get a butter knife in their jugular.

She has no reason to smile. To cheer up.

Laurel’s not talking to her, Oliver’s dug his head in the sand, and she can’t bear to go home and sit around that dinner table, while her mom and dad fruitlessly try to pretend that everything is A-Okay as they carve up a burnt turkey.

She’s screwed everything up.

She knows she has.

She just doesn’t know how to fix it. Doesn’t know if it can be.

Sara’s too busy wiping down the counter surface to notice the person who’s just walked in. Not that they try to get her attention either – the scowl on her lips probably enough of a deterrent.

It’s only as Gary, a fellow barista, nudges her shoulder and asks, “can you deal with that? Boss’s asked me to sort out the stock order for next week,” that she looks up.

The frown on her face freezes in place; breath caught in her chest.

Intense, green eyes stare back at her, with a familiarity that creeps up her spine, faintly pulling on church bell ropes somewhere in the back of her mind. Which is ridiculous. She’s never met this man before in her life. But the gaze prickles in a way that makes her think she’s felt it on her already. As if she’s been watched from afar these last few days and with that thought those bells turn quickly into alarm bells. She pastes a laser sharp smile on her face and asks in a manner that would have had her flunking Customer Service 101, “What can I get you?”

The man surprises her, there’s a twitch of his mouth as if he finds her hilarious, before it disappears again into a thin press of lips.

“A cup of English Breakfast, if you have it please, Sara?”

She barely processes the accent, her mind stuck on just the one thing.

“How do you know my name?” she all but growls.

He remains unfazed, doesn’t even take a step backwards away from the counter, and that just irks her more. He points instead at her chest – “your name tag.” This time there is a smile on his lips – brief though it is. Surprisingly there isn’t even a glimmer of amusement. If anything, he looks sad and it’s enough to get her to put the pin back in her grenade, and re-sheathe her blade.

She settles back on the balls of her feet, “to takeaway or-”

“I’ll have it here, thank you.”

She nods. “Take a seat. I’ll bring it over.”

He nods back at her and turns away. She watches the back of him as he chooses the far table in the corner, right by the window. The brown coat on his shoulders seems too thin for the weather. _He_ looks too thin. Now that his eyes are no longer on her, she runs her own over him.

Normally, she doesn’t take the slightest bit of interest in their customers, but there’s something about him that’s latched on and won’t let go.

His brown hair is short on the sides, snowflakes melting in the longer strands across the top. The stubble on his cheeks is at least a week old and as the warm lighting from inside the coffee shop falls squarely on him, it only highlights the creases around his eyes and the downturn of his lips. He looks like a man who’s lived too long and seen too much, and the world has only been full of one disappointment after another.

She knows the feeling.

And it’s absolutely insane, but she’s struck once again by the overwhelming feeling that she _knows him_.

He looks up at that moment. Up and at her, and she jerks her head away, turning on the spot to grab a clean cup and saucer as a blush creeps its way up her neck.

She hopes he doesn’t notice.

With a breath in and out, she grabs the tray once she’s done and pastes a company smile on her face and walks unhurried over to him.

The coffee place is empty apart from them. Her boss has scarpered off somewhere as per usual – the lazy bastard – and Gary is in the back office doing the order forms. It’s not unexpected, what with it being Christmas Eve. Most people have places to be, families to spend quality time with, rather than spending it drinking coffee after coffee late into the day.

Still, there’s something about the place tonight that unnerves her in a way it never has done before.

Sara comes to a stop beside his table and places the tea in front of him, followed by a mince pie.

He frowns down at it, the words “I didn’t order that” clearly on his lips, but she gets in first.

“It’s Christmas. They’re on the house.”

He purses his lips and nods. “Ah well. Right. In that case, thank you.”

She grins back at him, at the utter Britishness of him. But it’s not just that. It’s like he’s a man misplaced in time and place, and doesn’t really belong.

But he belongs somewhere, she knows. And it’s a completely unbidden thought that pops into her head right then, because where he belongs, is _beside her_. _And she beside him._

She steps back, the blush creeping up again, and god she thinks, it’s as if she’s never met a handsome stranger before _. Get it together, Sara!_

“Well, enjoy. Shout out if you need anything else.”

She doesn’t hang around to wait for his reply, and gets right back to busying herself with cleaning up. She goes over the counter top again, starts on the empty tables and she still can’t shake the feeling of his eyes on her. She chances a glance several times, but he’s quick to look away, gaze unfocussed on the view outside the window, the still busy roads, and the falling snow turning to sludge under the press of hot tyres.

It’s half an hour later and he’s long since finished his cup of tea, and there’s not the slightest suggestion he’s ready to get up and leave.

There’s been no one else, no other customers, and so Sara makes a decision. She tries to talk herself out of it many times over, but once she finds herself walking towards him, sliding into the seat opposite him with a cup of tea in one hand and a coffee for herself in the other, there’s no going back.

The smile on his lips at the sight of her there makes her believe that the snow could turn to hell-fire and she still couldn’t turn away. It doesn’t last as long as she’d like it to. The smile. It lasts only as long as a single snowflake landing on warm skin, and something tells her, that on him, smiles are just as rare.

“You look as thrilled about this time of year as I do. So, what’s your story Mr British Accent?” She leans back in her chair, cup at her lips as she looks over at him from under her lashes. She’s most definitely flirting and watching the blush bloom on his cheeks is definitely satisfying. It’s good to know the attraction isn’t a one-way street. She’s had enough of that to last her a lifetime as she resolutely pushes any and all thoughts of Oliver-Asshole-Queen from her mind.

He looks away from her to the counter, and stammers, “won’t your boss mind? That you’re taking a break?”

She shrugs, “take a look around, it’s a graveyard around here. Which brings me back to my original point. Don’t you have some place to be? It’s Christmas Eve.”

“Don’t you?” he counters.

“No place I want to be.”

And there’s that look again – nothing but sadness in the depth of his green eyes, and clearly, she’s given away more of herself than she’d intended.

He shakes his head, as he says almost to himself. “I thought- I thought it’d be the same, just like it’s been for them.”

Sara’s eyes narrow in confusion, “what would? And for who?”

He doesn’t answer her, swallows it with a sip of tea from the new cup she’s brewed for him. He sits back and says softly, “this is perfect, just how I like it.”

She grins, “I’m good at what I do.”

He stares at her again. “Yes, you are.” And she swears he means something else entirely.

He sits up a little straighter. “And to answer your question. I came here seeking friends.”

“And where are these friends of yours? Surely, they wouldn’t leave a man drinking on his own? Even if the drinks are of the non-alcoholic kind.” She adds the last bit with a scrunch of her nose; her thoughts on tea as a worthy beverage obvious.

“They’re busy with their lives – as they always should have been.”

It’s a strange thing to say, but Sara knows enough about the man already to know he’ll say nothing more on the subject.

“But I’m sure, if you need them-”

“Ah, but they don’t need me.”

And something tugs then at the centre of her chest, down to the pit of her stomach, and her mouth opens of its own accord, speaking words in a voice that’s hers, but isn’t. “You’re wrong. They always will. And if you need them, I’m sure they’d be here in a heartbeat. I’m also pretty sure they’d forgive you for whatever it is you think you’d be pulling them away from.”

He drops his teacup back onto it’s saucer; eyes wide as they hold her gaze, searching for something she knows is hidden away, deep down. She’s felt glimmers of it herself – now and again, a feeling that something’s wrong with her life. Something’s not quite right. That it’s not how it should be.

It’s only now, with this man sitting in front of her, a stranger who she somehow feels knows her better than her own parents, that she realises that maybe it still could be.

He smiles then, soft and still a little sad, but genuine and heartfelt. And with it the cars and the noise, the glare of fluorescent street lamps on snow, and everything around her fades away to nothing but the beat of her heart as he reaches forward and picks up her hand.

His skin is warm on hers, fingers long and calloused, but she doesn’t mind. He raises her hand to his lips, presses them into her skin and whispers, “thank you, Miss Lance.”

She inhales sharply as he lets her go, and she can’t seem to look him in the eyes as she grabs at his empty cup and abruptly stands up. “Let me get you a refill.”

She feels his eyes on her back again as she walks away. Heart pounding in her chest, all her irritation from earlier in the day somehow melting away to leave behind an imprint in the snow. An angel in the shape of another life. Of another Sara Lance.

And it’s as that thought settles she realises something with a soft gasp.

She never told him her full name.

She spins on the spot, forgets the cup in her hand as it lands with a crash on the counter top, forgets everything else as she marches back out into the shop and comes to a sudden standstill in the middle.

There’s a faint echo of the doorbell ringing in her ears, and the sound of George Michael crooning in the background. But it all fades away to nothing as she spots the empty chair where he should have been.

He’s gone.

She rushes over to the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of that ridiculous brown coat, belonging to a man she doesn’t even know the name of, and it’s as if he’s vanished into thin air.

There’s nothing to say he’d been here.

Nothing but the abandoned empty cups on the table and a crisp twenty-dollar bill.

She gingerly picks it up, and it’s only as she does that she notices the paper napkin sitting underneath. Nothing out of the ordinary, except of course, for the messy scrawl of writing in black ink.

 

_Forgiveness starts with forgiving yourself_

It’s trite, nothing she hasn’t heard before, but it strikes a chord as she shakes her head and smiles, wondering if he didn’t half write it for himself.

But it’s not that which causes her heart to lodge in her throat.

There’s a fainter scribble of lines just underneath and it takes her a moment to realise he’s written something else on the other side.

She turns it over.

 

_We’ll meet again, Sara Lance_

_Until then, stay out of trouble._

_Yours always, Rip_

 

*

*

*

*

*

 

She does meet him again.

She remembers nothing of it.

Only hears from Rip how Damien Darhk had found yet another way to torment him – creating a reality where only he knew the truth of Mallus and the rest of them had been blissfully unaware, living the lives they always should have done. Jax a successful sports star, Ray happily married to Anna, Martin alive and well, spending his days with Clarissa spoiling their grandson rotten. All so happy, Rip couldn’t bear to pull them away and shatter the illusion. And yet he’d done what he’d always done. Done what he had to, no matter the cost. And she can see it eating away at him, as he looks for something from all of them. Something he won’t name.

“And me?” she asks. “Was I happy?”

“I couldn’t find you,” he says. And it’s the way he says it, the flicker of unchecked emotion across his face, and the fingers clenched into a fist beside him.

It’s a lie.

“Oh.”

She turns to walk away, before he calls out again.

“Sara?”

“Yeah?”

He holds her gaze, and breathes out. There’s nothing but regret and self-hatred reflecting back at her.

“Never mind.”

 

*

*

*

 

She finds it in the pocket of her leather jacket, folded up, with worn, dirtied creases, as if she’d read it over and over and memorised the words until they were burned into her mind.

The ink has faded.

So has the memories.

But it’s there in her hands.

She finds a scrap of paper and scribbles before she can change her mind, and leaves it for him to find.

 

_You’re forgiven._

 

**End.**

 

 


End file.
